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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206902">Familiar Stars</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedgrace/pseuds/honeybakedgrace'>honeybakedgrace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Beach, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Trans Characters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:42:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,041</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24206902</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedgrace/pseuds/honeybakedgrace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kiyoomi makes himself a regular far into the summer months. Even Atsumu can see the guy’s practically melting into the linoleum, but still he stops by with a shimmer of sweat casting dewy stars over his pale skin and a heat on his cheeks that makes Atsumu’s tongue thick in his mouth.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>308</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Familiar Stars</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/gifts">pseudoanalytics</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>First and foremost, happy birthday Quip!! :p </p><p>BIG thank you to Basti for beta reading this!! (and a thank you as well to Bree for the astronomy major Sakusa brainworms)</p><p>I am here to push the SakuAtsu trans bf's agenda at all costs, enjoy!</p><p>(ALSO!!! Now with INCREDIBLE art by <a href="https://twitter.com/andraste_/status/1261562556579287040?s=21">Basti</a> &lt;3)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sky is clouded in spring overcast, just warm enough for Kiyoomi to take off his sweater but cold enough for him to keep it on hand. It’s pleasant, even ideal for some. Still, Kiyoomi finds something to lament over. </p><p>He’s been unpacking, but it’s a slow process. It took 2 days alone to clean the place from top and bottom and even then it still made him itch just thinking about all the years of rot and germ festering deep within the bones of the house itself, but still, he stayed. When his grandmother offered him her home nestled into the hillside overlooking the eastern coastline of Japan, he imagined something a bit more lush. Being surrounded by decomposing moving boxes is not exactly what he had in mind. </p><p>When he looks down at the sleeping bag and pillow tucked into the corner of the living room, he also starts to think that letting Komori buy all the furniture for their shared apartment was not as good of an idea now as it was 3 years ago. </p><p>Even worse than the fact that he’s 21 years old and graduated from college without even a bed frame to his name, it’s unbearably humid. Kiyoomi’s practically shedding a second skin’s worth of sweat. Nothing about him is made for the warmer months. He doesn’t tan golden and sweet in the heavy summer heat— he burns bright and hot until he’s laying in bed stinging all over and sweating himself to sleep under a thin, damp sheet. </p><p>The thick wetness hanging onto the pre-dusk breeze makes his coarse ringlets curl tighter and wilder and leaves a sheen of cool sweat over his neck and shoulders. Over time it puddles warm and wet in the bunched fabric pulling taut against his ribs— oddly enough even though he won’t touch vegetables with his bare hands before they’ve been rinsed, he refuses to wash his binder until it's actually growing something inside. Even when it dips below 15 degrees, he still keeps the windows cracked and his single creaking fan oscillating all night long for just a few seconds of respite from the oppressive evening air. </p><p>He sits back in the only piece of furniture he owns— a rocking chair left behind from the previous tenant— pulls his shirt up over his head, and fans himself dramatically with a newspaper that used to be wrapped around a lucky cat Komori bought him for graduation. </p><p>The obvious perk is the view. Going to school in Tokyo was ideal for attending university, but ironically was entirely unideal for his studies. To study the stars, it helps to see them, and the stars sure don’t shine quite like this in Tokyo.   </p><p>For the first few nights, he pulls his chair to the open dining room window and watches the sun sink behind the hills and savors the taste of the salty breeze that brushes a few stray curls up and away from his slick temples. He watches the stars blink to life across a blanket of indigo night and dozes off counting constellations behind a curtain of dark lashes. He sleeps like the dead and wakes up with remorse in his stiff muscles. </p><p>He stays home and unpacks and survives off sheer force of will and a packet of watermelon chewing gum for 2 days straight. On the third when he wakes up on his newly delivered mattress, he can’t use his stiff joints to ignore the gnawing in his belly and the lump somewhere in his chest. He’s just desperate enough to make a trip to the market. </p><p>It’s not as long of a trip back down the drive as it felt coming up the first night, Kiyoomi thinks. And it’s nice to be outside where his freckled neck can catch any small breeze that curls past; it’s not nearly as stifling as having to hang out of an open window like a dog just to get even a whisper of cool air. </p><p>Kiyoomi follows the instructions scribbled onto the blue post-it note he phoned in from his grandmother, leading him down the hill into the coastal strip of scattered homes and shops. He parks out front in the loose gravel off the side of the main road in front of Miya General— a modest pale blue building at the corner of the main road and the entrance to the wharf. </p><p>The area is mostly empty at this hour, the fisherman and shopkeepers have been settled into their work since dawn (Kiyoomi used to be wired to be up before daylight but it must be something in the sea breeze that keeps his eyes screwed shut well into the afternoon most days). </p><p>He cautiously steps onto the weathering wooden porch and pushes the door open with a sweatshirt-covered palm— even if he’s sweating to death in private, he’ll be damned to wear anything except a sweater 2 sizes too big in public— accompanied by the discordant ring of a rusting metal bell.  </p><p>The shop is empty, only the sound of footsteps from the back lets him know anyone is here at all. Kiyoomi pads down the first aisle, hunching forward like 192cm of soon-to-be pro volleyball player can possibly be hidden behind a shelf that barely reaches his chest. </p><p>Partway through the second of the four aisles a bottle of sesame oil slips from his fingers and clatters to the floor. </p><p>“‘Samu?” A groggy voice calls from across the shop. Kiyoomi stands up in time to watch a sleepy figure of a man rub his forearms and hands into his eyes, the hem of his shirt hiked up nearly to his chest as one hand lazily tugs it back down. “I told ya I’d clean it up m’self—” </p><p>He locks eyes with Kiyoomi, who’s got a death grip on a severely dented bottle of sesame oil.  </p><p>“Yer gonna have ta pay for that.” He says as oil slips down Kiyoomi’s forearm. </p><p>“Figured.”</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>…</p>
</div><p>A wet paper towel and some 400 odd yen later Kiyoomi’s back to browsing the shelves, watched closely by the co-owner himself— Miya Atsumu. He’s got a foul mouth and a head full of fried bleach-blonde hair.</p><p>“When didja get into town, Omi-kun?” </p><p>“<em>Sakusa</em>.” He grits. </p><p>“<em>Sakusa</em>,” Atsumu drawls. “When didja get into town?” </p><p>“4 days ago.” </p><p>“What fer?” Atsumu hops over the counter to lean on the shelf of the endcap, one elbow propping him up and his free hand planted on his hip. “Not many people I know of that’re just as young an hot as me tend ta settle down here.” He grins, flashing two rows of starbright teeth. </p><p>“Are you always like this?” Kiyoomi asks as he plucks a can of coconut cream. </p><p>“This charmin’? Course I am,” Atsumu frowns when simply Kiyoomi nods along, disinterested. “Are ya always that clumsy?” </p><p>“No.” </p><p>“Tch.” Atsumu clicks his tongue against his teeth, and Kiyoomi hates the satisfaction it brings him. </p><p>“Giving up so soon?” He calls out over his shoulder as Atsumu stalks back towards the counter. Atsumu turns with a question on his tongue, but it’s just the ghost of a whisper between his lips when he replaces the words with a smirk. </p><p>If it’s not today that Kiyoomi realizes, maybe it’s tomorrow when he returns for a forgotten bottle of, ironically, sesame oil. Maybe it’s next week when he’s craving sliced mango or two days later when he wants more chewing gum. It could be any of the days when he shows up without a list in mind, just swipes something off the shelf that he’ll at least eat to justify the trip. </p><p>But it’s not any of these days. There are a thousand Omi-kun’s and sharp-tooth smiles and wasted yen before he's wondering how it would feel to have Atsumu’s teeth dragging against his top lip.  </p><p>That day, Atsumu is running his mouth faster than Kiyoomi can process, hanging onto each word by the tips of his fingers. Atsumu blows back his curls and makes his neck sore from the whiplash— it’s an ache Kiyoomi’s gotten used to, one he’ll even dare to say he enjoys. </p><p>The vision is caught somewhere between “Nice ta see ya, Omi-Omi” and the gentle chuckle that slips past his lips when Kiyoomi spills a handful of change onto the counter. </p><p>“Thought ya said ya weren’t always so clumsy?” Atsumu drawls leaning in to collect some of the loose change. </p><p>“I’m not—” Kiyoomi swipes the last stray coin and snaps his chin up to glare at him. When he does his nose just barely cuts across Atsumu’s cheek, their faces mere inches apart. </p><p>Ah. </p><p>His heart doesn’t sink to his heels nor does it race around in his chest. Kiyoomi realizes he <s>definitely</s> might have a crush on Miya Atsumu like he’s remembered where he left his keys— it’s nice, but it’s nothing to call home about. He blinks the thought away and tucks those lost keys into his pocket. For another day. </p><p>“Keep the change.” Kiyoomi says, scooping up his things into the basket and casting a stiff wave over his shoulder. </p><p>Atsumu watches him go and curls the coins up into his palm until they’re warm, he counts them from touch alone and wonders how it took him so long to see it too.</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>…</p>
</div><p>The day after the next, Atsumu puts the packet of jasmine tea leaves into the woven basket and stops, pausing to consider before saying, </p><p>“Y’know if you make a list ya won’t have to keep on comin’ in here all the time.” </p><p>“Yeah, I know.”</p><p>“Ya must like me a lot to come in here all the time like ya do, huh?” </p><p>Without hesitation, Kiyoomi says, “You are intolerable.” </p><p>“Nah, ya don’t mean that.” Atusmu chuckles, tongue quite literally in his cheek as he says it.</p><p>“I don’t say anything I don’t mean,” Kiyoomi states, pulling his basket a little closer to his body while Atsumu fumbles with the receipt, “And I don’t forget it either.” He swipes the receipt and stuffs it into his sweatshirt pocket. </p><p>“Is that a threat?” </p><p>Kiyoomi turns back halfway out the door and hooks his mask down to his chin with one finger, revealing the smallest of rare smiles before disappearing into the foggy morning.</p><p>Atsumu’s thankful for the quiet, because he can turn bright and red and goofy and not even ‘Samu can judge him for the grin on his face once Omi is out of sight.  </p><p>He’s bold enough to ask for it, dumb enough to not consider how terribly distracting it is to spend the day thinking about that smile. </p><p>Kiyoomi makes himself a regular far into the summer months. Even Atsumu can see the guy’s practically melting into the linoleum, but still he stops by with a shimmer of sweat casting dewy stars over his pale skin and a heat on his cheeks that makes Atsumu’s tongue thick in his mouth. </p><p>The sweltering June gives way to a rainy July, the wettest in years. Still, Kiyoomi shakes the water from his cheeks and wipes it from his chin and complains about the muck that washes down from the hills. Atsumu argues with him just to see Omi’s mouth go small and his eyes narrow. </p><p>He revels in each hand pushed back into disheveled, bristly curls— the same hand that used to coil back from his touch but doesn’t anymore. Omi’s shoulders don’t hitch up when Atsumu’s flat fingertips graze his knuckles; he lets him pluck the few thousand yen from his fist and doesn’t hiss under his breath when Atsumu lingers there. </p><p>Sometimes the teasing gives way to inexplicably prolonged glances, not quite wistful, certainly not empty. </p><p>From the backroom Osamu watches them hit the ‘we both know what we want but are too stupid and/or stubborn to do anything about it’ point of no return that makes his head hurt just thinking about it. Kiyoomi comes in and buys groceries he doesn’t need, Atsumu argues with him about things he doesn’t even believe in— rinse, repeat. </p><p>Dawn breaks in this hellish night for Osamu as he fishes a wallet from the floor in front of the counter and flips it open to see none other than a mole-freckled bastard plastered onto the inside next to a tall older woman he recognizes from around town. It’s not much of a plan, but… maybe. </p><p>“This yers?” </p><p>“Mmm?” Atsumu hums in response, twisting a pen between his fingers intently. Osamu dangles the wallet in front of his face before smacking it up against his forehead with a <em>thwack</em>. “Hey!” </p><p>Osamu drops the wallet into his lap and presses a damp rag to the countertop. </p><p>“‘S Omi’s.” He states, haphazardly pulling open all the pockets to verify. </p><p>“Maybe ya should take it to em.” Osamu offers, doing his best not to sound eager. </p><p>“Really?” </p><p>“Ya, ’morrow’s Sunday an we’re closed, he might need it ‘fore then.” Atsumu nods, folding the wallet back up into one piece before shoving it into his back pocket. </p><p>“I should prolly take it to em,” Atsumu agrees, gluing his attention to unlocking the cash register instead of staring back at Osamu. “Why’re ya lookin’ at me like that?” He snaps, shaking his head to let a swathe of blonde hair hang over his scorching cheeks. </p><p>Osamu grunts in response, “No reason, now finish up or else we’ll never get outta here.”</p><p>After the sunset sky's turned black and blue, the Miyas tuck their aprons behind the counter and Osamu tosses over the keys to the truck. </p><p>“Go on, I’ll call Suna ta give me a ride home.” Atsumu folds his brows together at the giddy look in Osamu’s eyes at the thought. </p><p>He grumbles, “Well then I guess I shouldn’t be expectin’ ya ta wait up?” Osamu just raises his eyebrows and buries his hands deeper into his jacket with a shrug. Atsumu winces. </p><p>“Got it.” He swings over the counter, even though it’d be just as easy not to slide his butt over the recently cleaned counter and walk around. Osamu nearly snaps at him for it, but Atsumu is already halfway out the door. </p><p>Osamu mutters under his breath, “Don’t fuck it up, ‘Sumu.”</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>…</p>
</div><p>Atsumu’s truck crawls up through the hills towards the home. He’d always found it bothersome to have to direct strangers up towards the old rental, but after a few years worth of ‘take a left at the rundown white farmhouse’ all of his hard work is finally coming to sweet fruition.</p><p>The wallet rests in the crook of his hip, tucked between his stomach and his thigh to prevent it from sliding across the bench seat. Every so often he reaches down to rest the heel of his palm onto it. He runs his fingers over the body heat-warm leather and lets his nerves roll off in waves. </p><p>When he pulls into the driveway, he remembers his final and most important direction: </p><p>“Don’t try an take yer car all the way up ta the house unless yer tryna get stuck.” </p><p>He remembers exactly why that was such an important note when his heels sink into the soft topsoil with each step. The walk builds up a thin layer of glossy sweat, but he doesn’t mind. Each distraction makes him forget that he’s going to Omi’s house. Omi’s house where he sleeps and cooks and lazes around in pajamas and waters all the plants he can’t shut up about and where maybe he falls asleep wondering what Atsumu’s doing—</p><p>“What the hell are you doing here?” Kiyoomi's voice cuts across the buzz of the few cicadas still left awake at this hour. In front of the buff colored home, Kiyoomi is stretched out in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants over a large burgundy colored blanket. </p><p>“What’re you doing there?” He sits upright and criss-crosses his legs, louring at Atsumu sinking into the ground of his front lawn. </p><p>“It’s a meteor shower tonight.” </p><p>“Mmm.” Atsumu hums, like he knows exactly what that’s supposed to entail. </p><p>“So, what are you doing here?” </p><p>“Oh,” Atsumu fishes the wallet from his back pocket. “Ya left this at the shop, or ya dropped it.” He holds out the wallet for him to take, but Kiyoomi keeps his arms crossed tight over his stomach. He gently lobs the wallet onto the blanket. “Thought ya might need it ‘fore Monday, just in case.” </p><p>“Thanks.” Kiyoomi sets it aside and looks on at Atsumu expectantly. “Well?”</p><p>Atsumu sprawls out next to him, belly up and arms flung above his head. </p><p>“What are you—”</p><p>“What’s this meteor shower business yer talkin’ about?” Atsumu squints into the sky. </p><p>“It hasn’t started yet.” </p><p>“Then what’re ya doin’?” Kiyoomi lays back down with a grunt, resigning himself to sharing the space with Atsumu’s broad hips. </p><p>“Looking for constellations.” </p><p>“Constellations,” Atsumu echoes, paying more attention to Omi shifting around next to him than the sky. </p><p>“They’re easily visible this far out from the city.” Kiyoomi adds. </p><p>“Really?” Atsumu turns his head to press his cheek into the blanket, staring at Kiyoomi’s focused features. He barely casts his eyes down to meet his gaze.  </p><p>“Yeah.” </p><p>“Show me.”</p>
<p></p><div>
  <p>…</p>
</div><p>“There’s Ursa Major,” He draws the complicated shape absentmindedly with his finger, “and Minor.” He whispers, letting his hand drop to the familiar string of stars. He searches the sky for the telltale pale yellow glow, and when his eyes settle on it he guides Atsumu’s wrist up towards where Jupiter sits amidst a sea of glimmering white flecks.</p><p>“What’s that?” Atsumu whispers, like if he speaks too loudly he’ll scare it away. </p><p>“Jupiter.” </p><p>“Oh wow, pretty.” </p><p>“You lost it didn’t you?”</p><p>“‘M not sure I had it in the first place ta be honest.” Kiyoomi takes his arm again and guides it in line with the small speck. </p><p>“Planets don’t sparkle, they glow, and it’s colored differently,” He explains, “and after you see a planet through a telescope once, you never forget what it looks like.” Kiyoomi is so lost in the memory of streaks of red, orange, and grey wrapping around the massive planet to notice Atsumu’s gaze flicker over to his face, ignoring Jupiter in favor of examining his own favorite celestial object. </p><p>“How d’ya know all this shit, huh?” </p><p>“I graduated with a degree in astronomy.” </p><p>“<em>Astronomy</em>? They give out degrees for that?” Atsumu frowns with thought before flipping on his side to face Kiyoomi with a serious expression on his face. </p><p>“So like, what does that say ‘bout us?” </p><p>“Us?” </p><p>“Y’know the compatibility shit, since you’re an expert you prolly’d know if we’re compatible.” </p><p>“God,” Kiyoomi shuts his eyes so hard his entire face scrunches up with effort. “Could you be any more stupid?” </p><p>“Sure—“ </p><p>“That’s <em>astrology</em> you dumbass.” </p><p>“S’ different?” </p><p>“Just, stop, stop talking before I change my mind.” Kiyoomi begs, burying his face into the crook of his elbow while his body decides whether to wince or laugh. </p><p>“Change yer mind?” </p><p>Now when Kiyoomi keeps his arm over his face, it’s not to hide from secondhand shame, but from his own maroon blush spreading fast and hot from the point of his nose to the tips of his ears.</p><p>“Nothing, I misspoke.” </p><p>“Nah,” Atsumu wriggles his body closer, trying to crane his neck to see Kiyoomi’s hidden face. “Ya don’t say anythin’ ya don’t mean. Ya said so yerself didn’t ya?” </p><p>He begins to tug loosely on Kiyoomi’s wrist, and when he doesn’t budge Atsumu sits upright and leans up and over Kiyoomi’s head. </p><p>“C’mon Omi-Omi, what’s on yer mind?” </p><p>He peeks out from behind his mole-freckled forearm to squint narrowly at the curious golden eyes peering down. </p><p>“Why did you ask if we’re compatible?” </p><p>Atsumu stops poking at his sides and peels himself off Kiyoomi. He settles on his back next to him, the crests of their shoulders pressed flat into one another. </p><p>“I don’t know,” He mumbles. “Just thinkin’.” </p><p>“Do you think about it a lot?” Kiyoomi brings his arm down in favor of bravely turning his head to watch Atsumu’s eyebrows curl upwards and his nose crinkle along its bridge. </p><p>“It pisses me off, the way I think ‘bout ya,” He says, squinting up at the stars, “I used ta mind my business, ‘Samu’d yell at me for stocking the chicken broth where the vegetable broth goes, as if they ain’t basically the same damn thing, and that was fine. I was happy doin’ it.” </p><p>“But now?” </p><p>“Now I put the chicken broth where it outta go and wonder what yer doin’. Instead of ordering the mango and the matcha mochi I just order the mango. I go to sleep with the stupid image of you biting into one and smilin’ burned onto the backs of my eyelids. And it’s stupid,” Atsumu turns his head to face Kiyoomi, their faces close enough to catch the heat of their breath on the other’s nose. “It hurts, but like in the way that burns hurt when ya run 'em under cold water. It’s like yer a bruise an' I know the best way for it to heal is to leave it alone but I can’t stop pokin’ at it. Everytime I see ya it’s like I’m slicin’ my finger open just so I can watch it heal.” </p><p>“Something like that.” Kiyoomi whispers, letting the huff of Atsumu’s frustrated sigh press heat onto his pale lips. He soars on the knowledge that Atsumu is addicted to the painful and pleasurable high of himself, and even when insecurity gnaws somewhere deep in his skull he can’t pretend to hear it for a second. He shifts onto his side, pressing his collarbone into Atsumu’s shoulder. He idly slips a thumb beneath the loose collar of his shirt and under the thick strap digging into his shoulder. </p><p>Yeah, he knows a little something about how satisfying aches can be. </p><p>“Like growing pains.” He offers, wanting to catch Atsumu’s attention to see Jupiter in those golden pupils. Atsumu doesn’t indulge him, just stares deeper into the night sky with the same affronted expression.</p><p>“What ‘bout em?” </p><p>Kiyoomi knows all about growing pains. Dull pangs in the soles of his feet and in the bends of his knees. He can still see the red streaks between his thighs and over his hips, and for a while he hated them. He hated growing because it meant becoming more— for him especially as he grew far above the other kids his age and then a few inches extra— but now he doesn’t mind so much. He’s been changing in such painful ways for so long that he’s come to appreciate the bitter bliss of tenderness wrapped around his bones. </p><p>Of course he could tell Atsumu all that, but instead fumbles for the easiest way to say the hardest thing. </p><p>“Sometimes…” He trails off, lips pressed thin in concentration. </p><p>Atsumu turns to Kiyoomi with a quizzical look on his face and a chuckle on his lips. </p><p>“Omi are ya tryna be poetic?” He asks, lost into a peal of laughter that’s as amused as it is bitter. “That’s so fuckin’ cute I think I need to put my fist through a wall,” he pants, clenching his fists above his stomach. When the laughter subsides he lets his arms fall limp, accidentally grazing Kiyoomi’s abdomen as one settles between them. When he does face Omi, who’s peering up at him through an unreadable expression, he exhales the shallow breath in his throat.</p><p>“Am I reading this all wrong, Omi? D’ya like me?” </p><p>“I cannot stand you.” Kiyoomi admits. </p><p>“‘M serious!” The hitch in his tone catches Kiyoomi’s attention. </p><p>“Then be serious about it.” </p><p>“D’ya want me to?” </p><p>Kiyoomi grits his teeth— his first mistake was thinking there is an easy way to do anything when it comes to Atsumu. </p><p>“Yes.” He nearly hisses, becoming more heat than human with the confession. Atsumu nods, short and small and releases a shuddering exhale, <em>relief</em>. </p><p>“Then—” </p><p>Kiyoomi closes the space between them, jumping what feels like places to put himself between Atsumu’s lips. </p><p>Breath still held behind his teeth, Atsumu stays frozen until Kiyoomi pulls back. He lets all the tension free in one quick, heavy sigh before collapsing to meet him halfway. </p><p>Kiyoomi’s jaw goes slack, an invitation. Atsumu obliges, sucking sweetly and softly on his tongue before sinking his canines into the soft skin of his lower lip. </p><p>He savors the rush of heat to the point of contact and pushes back, not biting but sure as shit bruising. It begins to slow, going from zealous, needy kissing to slow-moving, languid pressing of open mouths to the point where just the meat of their lower lips are pressed flat into one another. They let their breaths go slow and even. Atsumu dares to open his eyes and see the final remnants of wild bravery leave Kiyoomi’s abyssal black irises. He settles his gaze onto his swollen patch of pink lip and lets the feeling that keeps him up at night rise up into the bottom of his throat and burn sourly. </p><p>He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the sight.</p>
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</em><p>“‘Sumu,” Osamu swings his head around the endcap of aisle 2 with a tired frown and a box of breadcrumbs in hand, “How many times do I gotta tell ya? Breadcrumbs don’t go with the bread, shithead.” The flat side of the box smacks Atsumu’s exposed shoulder.</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>,” He hisses, swiping the dented box from the floor, “Yer damaging good product! And don’t call me shithead.” </p><p>“Why the hell not?” </p><p>“‘S Omi’s nickname.” He grumbles, turning back to the shelf to avoid Osamu’s twisted grimace. </p><p>“Well he can keep it, I got plenty a others.” Osamu disappears back into the aisle, noisily stacking plastic-wrapped loaves of bread before saying, “How long’s it been.” </p><p>“A few months, 3 or so I think,” Atsumu lies, like he hasn’t been counting the 2 months and 23 days since he last made the trip to Osaka to visit his boyfriend. If he had it his way, he’d be clocking off early every Friday, barreling down the east coast of Japan in the Miyas’ old truck. He’d drop a duffle down in Omi’s genkan and kiss him dumb and tired at 2 A.M. with the door still cracked open. He thought about doing it as a surprise but Omi’s schedule is strict, not even Atsumu could be excused if it meant an off game or practice.  </p><p>So he stays and he works and kicks ‘Samu off the tv when the games are on and doesn’t hang up the phone until Omi’s snores on the other end of the line lull him to sleep. It’s not always quite right—sometimes Atsumu’s starting his shift while Omi’s finally got a break and sometimes one of them falls asleep on the couch with their phone ringing in the other room. But he can forgive it all just to run his hands through those wiry curls and kiss hard enough to turn the both of them black and blue. He’ll cut the wound open as many times as it takes to hear Omi whisper baby in his ear.</p><p>Osamu offers, “I’m sure you’ll see ‘m soon enough,” a rare taste of comfort. </p><p>“Mhm.” Atsumu mumbles, an acknowledgement but hardly an admittance. </p><p>“Why dontcha take the rest of the night off?” </p><p>“Hah?” Atsumu stands up and peers over the aisle. Osamu shrugs. </p><p>“I’ll hafta redo whatever ya get wrong anyways, might as well do it m’self. Go home.” </p><p>“Y’know what?” Atsumu unties his half-apron and chucks it past the counter. “I’ll take ya up on that.” He pushes his cart back towards the end of the aisle and grabs his keys from the cash register. </p><p>“Just don’t eat my leftovers.” Osamu calls as he pushes the door open. Atsumu savors the rush of evening air and waves his hand over his shoulder. </p><p>“Ya, sure.”</p>
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</div><p>Atsumu sinks into the couch with the plastic tupperware balanced on his knees and remote clutched between his two freezing hands. Even if he’s practically a space heater compared to most, November’s chill turns even his rough fingers pale and pink. He flicks on his nightly indulgence— watching Mulan for the nth time in a row. Osamu is indifferent to it but no one is accusing him of having great taste in iconic musical compositions and flawless storytelling. (No one is accusing Atsumu of it either, but he still swears Mulan is the pinnacle of Disney animation.)</p><p>Once he’s got the knitted blanket pulled up his chest and the plastic container of leftover curry in his lap, someone pounds on the door. Three steady but firm raps, probably Osamu, but Atsumu lets himself imagine that it <em>could</em> be someone else. </p><p>“Yer home early—” </p><p>“Surprise.” </p><p>Kiyoomi stands with a bag in one hand and his mask dangling from the other. </p><p>Atsumu pulls him by the straps of his bag into the house and into his arms, the duffle long forgotten once he’s got his lips on Kiyoomi’s neck, collarbones, lips, forehead, cheeks—</p><p>“‘Tsumu.” He mumbles, leaning into his touch and butting his head up against Atsumu’s temple. Atsumu grunts in response and doesn’t cease his onslaught.  </p><p>“Whatever ya want, baby. ‘S yer’s.” </p><p>Kiyoomi wraps his arms around Atsumu’s waist and carries him back towards his room, returning a few of his kisses on the way. He kicks the door shut with his foot and sets Atsumu down on the bed, where he cranes his neck up and snakes his hands behind Kiyoomi’s neck to pull him down into more open-mouthed kisses. </p><p>Atsumu kisses like he’s trying to map out Kiyoomi with just his lips, it’s all broad strokes and warm breath, slightly overwhelming but completely intoxicating. </p><p>Kiyoomi pushes him back so that he can see his face, fogged by sleep and love. </p><p>“What? Ya forget what I looked like? Look later. I’m only touchable fer so long—” </p><p>Kiyoomi plants his hands on either side of Atsumu’s face, curling his fingers behind his ears to hold him steady. He wouldn’t forget a view like this but—</p><p>“It’s nice to see you.” He mumbles, running his thumbs over the hills of Atsumu’s cheeks thoughtfully. </p><p>“It’s nice ta see ya too, Omi-kun.”</p>
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